


The Imitation of Intimacy

by folderol



Category: Homeland
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Carrie sucks at feelings, Episode Related, F/M, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folderol/pseuds/folderol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>She feels a hand gently brush the side of her face. The touch only lasts for a moment, but she knows -- she knows that hand. It makes no sense, Carrie tells herself, but she knows it to be true.</em>
</p><p>Two perspectives of the events in 4x07.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Shit, why did I write this? I don't actually ship Carrie/Khan or Carrie/Brody. Still, I hope Aasarie fans will find this non-smutty approach interesting.
> 
> I wanted to explore two questions I had at the end of 4x07:
> 
> 1\. Why does Carrie avoid Quinn's eyes the whole episode? (And more importantly, can I spin this detail into a story where Carrie deals with underlying feelings towards Quinn?)
> 
> 2\. Why does Khan try to comfort Carrie after she (presumably) attacks him, considering he could have easily called a guard or kicked her out of his house?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrie runs. She runs towards Saul, away from Quinn.
> 
> She runs until she runs into someone unexpected.

It begins with Quinn.

The headache begins during their tense silence in the car.

It doesn’t make sense, this headache that is increasing in magnitude every few minutes. She had even taken extra pills before entering the sleek black SUV. The pain is exactly what she needs on such a critical day in their mission, she thinks sarcastically.

_Shit, what a shitstorm of problems._

Her newest asset had been murdered by his insurgent uncle, Haissam Haqqani, who then revealed that he had kidnapped _Saul_. Somehow Saul had gone from the relative safety of an international airport into the clutches of Haqqani himself. The sight of a bedraggled Saul via the drone cameras had saved Haqqani’s sorry ass.

Blood rushes to her head as she thinks about how she had let Saul down. And Aayan. _I mean, the kid told me he freaking loved me._

Some of her colleagues (those prudish assholes who believed in “traditional” recruitment methods, such as _blackmail_ ) might raise their eyebrows at her personal tactics, but Carrie really _feels_ for each asset in the field. She puts herself in each one, infusing them with some of her drive and heart.

Her conscience is wrestling with the rational argument that Aayan Ibrahim was the nephew of a well-known terrorist on the run. _Nobody_ could have been more of a wildcard.

Or a more unusual choice of lover.

Underneath the safe house’s musty sheets, Aayan had a touch that was both clumsy and methodical. He kissed eagerly, with the underlying awkwardness of a young animal that had found itself in an unfamiliar furrow. Carrie had to be a little bit charmed by the way he slyly gazed at her slim wrists, as if admiring a piece of art.

Now he was gone.

This isn’t the first time that Carrie has had to deal with this type of loss. _It shouldn’t hurt so much._ It was feigned intimacy, the fake relationship she had developed with Aayan. It was all part of her plan.

A plan that got _absolutely_ fucked up. 

Carrie closes her eyes and rubs her aching forehead, willing the aching to fade so she could think clearly about her next step. Her skin is moist to the touch, unaccustomed to the humid air in Islamabad. (She never carries facial wipes around; her to-do list is too long to include something so trivial.) 

She doubts the aspirin in her bag is going to relieve a headache this harsh. Carrie is going to have to tough it out.

But _shit_ , this is going to be a long day. Carrie knows she’s not going to take a break until Saul is safe and in her sight.

She senses Quinn turn his focus from the road, noticing her fatigue.

“You asleep?” he asks quietly. 

The Agency car is a spacious one, but Carrie feels a little trapped, alone with Quinn. She knows that he wants to talk about the events of yesterday. He wants to close the gap between them.

“Hardly.” Carrie takes some calming breaths.

Quinn withdraws his gaze from her. “You’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later,” he replies dispassionately.

 _Fuck, back to this subject again._ With her throbbing head, Carrie is hardly up to a heart-to-heart chat. “I get what you did what you did,” she snaps.

“Oh, you do?” Carrie can hear an edge developing in Quinn’s measured tone.

“Yeah,” she asserts. “Which doesn’t mean I think you were right.”

They argue about Haqqani and Saul, about what Saul would have done had he been in their impossible situation. Kill Haqqani and Saul, or let them escape together?

_Saul, with that fucking cold-blooded killer of an uncle._

A few hours ago, Carrie had been so sure of her original decision: _Kill them both_.

Quinn had halted that action.

“ _It’s Saul down there. Saul!_ ” he had snarled, seizing her by the arms as he swung her away from the drone footage screen. His face had been close to hers as he shouted in her face. Quinn’s red-rimmed eyes had been filled with conviction that matched her own.

Carrie can’t help but be bitter about someone abruptly questioning her judgement, stopping her plans in motion. She is always the most action-oriented person in the room. Inaction was something she never understood. Carrie thrives on deciding, moving forward, executing a plan --

\-- _and dealing with the consequences_ , she has to admit.

First there was her Iraqi translator (hung from a bridge), then Brody (executed by the Iranians), and now Aayan (shot by his uncle). Hell, her portfolio has several other assets and informants that her mind doesn’t want to linger on. Cruel and unfortunate murders. All for the bigger picture, the greater cause.

Could Carrie live with sending another man to his death? What if that next man is Saul, her mentor?

 _Quinn was right_ , she grudgingly admits in her head.  _I can’t do that to Saul._  

“Truth is I’m grateful for not having him on my conscience too. I feel shitty enough about Aayan as it is,” mutters Carrie.

She’s throwing him a bone, she knows, but Quinn knows that her admission is Carrie-speak for “thanks.”

He glances at her again, but Carrie isn’t going to give him any facial cues of gratefulness.

She wants to be alone with her thoughts. She wants out of this car, away from Quinn and the cloud of doubt he had cast.

 

* * *

 

Carrie’s headache hasn’t faded by the time they reach Benazir Bhutto International.

The stimuli in the crowded room force her senses into high alert. The IT guy clanging his spoon on his mug of coffee _(or tea, or whatever the hell they drank around here)_ a desk away vexes her over-sensitive ears.

It doesn’t help when she sees that the airport tapes are disappointing. It’s truly pathetic, the surveillance system here -- or is it a failed ply to gain the CIA’s confidence?

Help from the ISI? _Please_. After all of his promises at the Embassy, Aasar Khan had taken to shooting down her theories and dodging her questions.

They clearly have something to hide.

“You warned them that we were coming, didn’t you?” she questions Khan.

“Excuse me?" 

“You heard me, what have they done with the evidence?”

A snap in the corner alerts Carrie to a shifty-looking security guard, preparing to walk out of the room with a non-descript briefcase. 

 _They clearly have something to hide_.

Without waiting for a response from Khan, Carrie darts after the guard.

“Hey, where’s he going? _Hey_! Excuse me!” she shouts after him. The man turns back, immediately looking guilty at her inquiry.

“What’s in the briefcase?” she demands.

“Nothing,” the guard responds, confused, looking towards Khan for -- what? Support? Instructions?

“ _Nothing_?” Carrie repeats mockingly. “Empty? It doesn’t look empty to me.” She’s speaking frantically. Her heart is racing, racing with the possibility that she may have something here.

“Just some papers,” stammers the guard.

Khan interrupts Carrie as she opens her mouth again: “ _Trust me._ Nobody here is hiding anything.”

He pauses, for emphasis. “You have my word.”

What exactly is Khan’s word worth? “Prove it.” Carrie practically spits out the two words. It’s hilarious, she thinks, and she sniggers a little, half-amusement and half-frustration.

Khan and the guard are beat. Khan gestures the other man to open his briefcase.

Carrie leans over to inspect the contents and she is sincerely amazed to see that the briefcase only contains a newspaper and a box lunch. She looks up to search the guard’s face. _Guilt? Does he look guilty?_ Back to Khan. _Unreadable. Is he playing a trick?_

Carrie becomes aware of a smooth movement behind her back: it’s Quinn, licking his lips and looking away. She had forgotten he was there; the man is a shadow, dogging her every step. Quinn hadn’t said a word defending her, or contributed anything during the entire conversation. 

She knows that he’s embarrassed by her out-of-touch accusations, her conviction lost in the wind. But Carrie never gets embarrassed.

She’s only befuddled by how her instincts -- almost always _so right_ \-- led her to this dead-end.

 

* * *

 

The pain is now _fucking unreal_. It is nothing like the migraines she used to experience at Langley.

Time is running out for Saul, she knows. At the CIA meeting, she declares that they need to rescue him _tonight_ , before Haqqani’s group leave their known location. 

It’s not a popular idea.

Quinn fires back: _It’s an operation that would take weeks of planning._

Redmond disagrees with her: _Another operation in a nearby area lost dozens of men._

And Lockhart thrives on shooting ideas down, so no chance of support there.

“So you’re saying, Saul’s _fucked_? And we do -- what, just give up? Go get a fucking drink, maybe?” She spits at Redmond and his pessimism. “Cause we need to figure this out. What are we doing, just _talking_ to myself here --”

“Hey!” Lockhart interrupts. “What’s gotten into you?”

Carrie swings her attention towards Lockhart. He has a slightly puzzled expression on his face that she doesn’t immediately recognize.

It takes a few seconds for Carrie to register that Lockhard looks _concerned_. Not concerned as in concerned about how he might strike back against a perceived insult, but concerned about _her_.

“Uh. Nothing.” Carrie is taken aback, flustered by Lockhart’s halt to her rant.

“Nothing,” she says again. She hisses. She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she repeats more softly, with less certainty.

“We all get the sticks here!”

“Right,” she is quick to agree. She nods quickly, the diplomatic up-and-down bobbing motion disguising her doubt. She hopes it does, anyway. “I know.”

She huffs in and out through her teeth again.

She looks away.

“I know." 

She can feel the team tense themselves, shifting uneasily as they watch her anger fizzle out.

She can feel Quinn’s concern without looking at him. She can’t fucking stand his sensitivity right now.

Before he has a chance to say anything -- to defend her, to offer her a breather -- Carrie announces that she’ll need a minute.

“Take ten!” Lockhart is frowning, still surprised at her outburst. “Take whatever you need!”

 “‘K, thank you,” she mutters as she briskly exits the room, refusing to meet Quinn’s attentive eyes.

 

* * *

 

Carrie needs her meds.

She has to cling onto the bed for balance. Her breathing is out of control. She can feel her whole body shaking, but worst of all is the pounding in her head.

How long has it been since she sat down? A minute? Ten minutes? When is she heading back to the ops room again?

“Fuck,” she gasps. She spreads herself onto the bed. Her eyes scan the ceiling until her head almost involuntarily falls to her left side. She sinks into the softness of the mattress. She clutches a corner of the bedspread over her mouth. _Fuck fuck fuck._ The cool cloth -- she can feel it, but the touch is barely perceptible. She can feel the cool sweat dampen her chest, underneath the tightness of her shirt. The hot breath collects underneath the bedspread.

She shuts her eyes.

 _Alone, for once_.

 

* * *

 

It feels like no time has passed before Carrie’s phone rings. “Hello,” she says in the softest voice she’s ever heard come out of her mouth.

It’s Max calling. _Thank god, it’s not Quinn._ Carrie palms her face momentarily and looks towards the carpet. The problem. _Focus on the problem._ Respond to Max.

“What time is it?” she has to ask. She peers at her own watch and she can’t read it. Her eyesight is shifting in and out of focus. It’s as if her whole arm is swinging the watch back and forth, even though she is sure her arm is stationary.

The whole world is a fucking mindfield. She brushes her long hair back.

Max gives her the information she needs. She ends the call.

Carrie stumbles her way back to her bathroom and takes another pill.

She’s desperate for this to work. She packs extra medicine, for later.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Alone, always_.

This is how she likes it. Doing what needs to be done _alone_ : no one else to screw the job up.

Carrie walks down a dim hallway.

She’s gasping for breath, but it’s barely noticeable since she’s almost running -- she’s in a hurry. She swings a scarf over her head and around her shoulders.

She passes underneath a long light. The buzzing is loud and painful. As bright as the light itself. It stings her eyes; it irritates her ears. Carrie can’t help but examine it cautiously as she zips by.

She’s a little unsteady on her feet. The door she shuts on the way out is surprisingly heavy.

_Focus, Carrie. Look down the hallway. Scan the surroundings for any suspicious movements or sounds._

The Urdu music in the store she passes -- a man bellowing in sorrow, was it? -- echoes in her ears.

 

* * *

 

“Do you -- do you know what this medicine is?”

She’s stammering. She wrestles with the nurse, Aayan’s little girlfriend; Carrie needs to make her take her questions _seriously_.

“Her name is… shit! Fuck, fuck, what’s her name? Do you -- d’you -- FUCK! Do you KNOW this nurse, this nurse who sold --”

She’s jittery, her mind is slipping away from her.

Carrie’s jabbing her finger. She needs to make her gestures big, to make sure they’re comprehensible. She’s accustomed to being not taken seriously -- but it is absolutely _critical_ that Kiran needs to understand how important a little clue can help.

A hospital security guard shouts at them. It makes no sense at all, but the hospital guard is _Quinn_.

Quinn again.

 _What the fuck_.

Why is he always trying to get in her way? Sure, he _thinks_ he’s protecting her, but all he’s doing is slowing her down and Kiran is running away --

“I need you to leave, please.” He waves an accusatory finger at her. It seems to drift quickly upwards and slowly down.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she snarls, trying to rip his grip on her arms.

“Okay, I am trying really hard to be patient here and I really don’t want to hurt you.“ His fiery pleads are echoing through the grimy hall.

“Oh, because you _care_ for me?” Carrie is sensing a trap. Emotional _blackmail_? She doesn’t need his bullshit. She can get the job done on her own.

And she will.

She knows she will. She doesn’t _want_ Quinn here.

“What?”

“I have to listen to that shit all over again,” she barks.

_It’s harsh, but it’s the truth._

“You’re leaving me no choice.” He wraps his arms around her _(to restrain her, not to comfort her)_.

 _Fuck this mayhem!_ The world doesn’t understand that Saul was in danger; the world doesn’t understand Carrie’s sense of urgency.

Carrie trashes with all her strength.

“Get your hands off me!”

She stamps on his foot and knocks an elbow into his face. He’s still clutching her hand despite her force, but Carrie kicks him one last time so she can dash off. Who cares where the kick lands. It feels like it was his face, but she hopes that she kicked his balls too.

Kick him where it _really_ hurts.

 

* * *

 

She enters a loud bazaar.

Alone.

_Lonely in a crowd of strangers._

Her scarf has fallen off sometime during her hospital encounter, but fuck it. Or maybe it is still swinging behind her shoulders. All she knows is that the top of her head feels cooler in the crisp evening air.

What is she looking for? Where is the clue? _She needs the clue._

She’s beginning to hobble. That kick really took it out of her leg -- she might have a bruised toe. She tastes something vile coming up her throat. Liquid. Sour. Bitter. It spills out of her mouth and she has to lean over to release it.

She hears mutterings around her. Concern. Worry. Angst.

What she would do to leave that crowd behind, leave behind her own concern, worry, and angst.

She looks up, sees a man shouting at her. She nods at him, instinctually. Yes, she owes him ( _what, what was it?_ ) something, but she isn’t going to pay now.

She turns away.

Her breathing slows down, thankfully. She knows she’s close.

She hears a car behind her, honking and requesting room to pass.

 _But she knows better._ This car has been _searching_ for her. Stalking her.

The car! It’s the same car! The car whose windows were smashed. The man who was watching the car, watching the scene where Sandy was stomped to death by the crazy mob.

_(That can’t be right.)_

It’s honking. She has to run. She has to get away. She’s always managed to get away.

Her pace of breathing quickens as her legs move faster, her arms swing wider. It’s her breathing. She’s focusing on it, but not losing sight of the _big picture_ \--

“WHAAA!”

She runs into someone. Someone who could hurt her. A large man who merely makes a face and brushes her off, like a cow flicking a mosquito away.

The car is approaching again.

 _Shit!_ She’s wasting so much time -- time feels like it’s slipping by so quickly, her body is so slow, her mind is so foggy -- how can she battle the arrow of time?

A motorcycle zips by and she is knocked to the ground by the momentum.

Carrie looks back, ready to confront. It’s her last option. It’s her only choice.

The car has stopped.

She can see the shadows of the men inside, staring at her, discussing what they were going to do with her.

_One thing to do now._

Whisk out her gun and shoot.

The gun is unbelievably loud. Her ears feel as if they were cracked by a whip. She feels satisfied as her pursuers pass out onto the ground, bleeding. Two shouts of agony and down they went.

Police sirens are coming closer to her. She spins around and jerks out her gun again -- _wait, where was her gun?_

There she is, standing in the middle of the street, watched by hundreds of passerby mystified by this foreign blonde lady -- there she is, _pointing a fucking finger_ at the police car that is rapidly approaching her.

 _Crap._ Did she shoot? Can she shoot now?

She looks at her hand: no gun. No gun, but she would _never_ drop such a weapon.

She gasps.

It feels as if an earthquake is rumbling in her head.

Time slows down. It feels like it is returning to her.

She turns around and sees that a tall dark stranger is approaching her. _Fuck!_ Nowhere to run, she is blocked on both sides by adversaries --

More policemen appear at her side, out of thin air. They grab her. “No!” she shouts. “No no no _no_ \-- I’m fine! Let go of me!”

They pin her to the ground. “Fuck! Get off of me!” She starts snivelling manically. Involuntarily, because it’s impossible for her to play the sympathy card here. _Foreign, stupid, lost_ \-- would they believe that?

Her mind isn’t capable of making up a story.

She can only blubber half-assed excuses.

The red police lights are blinking, blinding her with crimson light. It looks as if her eyes are bleeding.

 

* * *

 

The car stops.

Carrie and her abductors _(Policemen? Were they?)_ step out. Carrie’s arms are bound.

“Where -- where are we going?” she splutters. Her voice is faltering; she hates how scared and frightened it sounds.

She does not sound like Carrie Mathison.

Without a word, they rush her towards the glossy door of a looming mansion ahead.

They enter a warm foyer. The men unwrap Carrie’s restraints. She absorbs the hallways. White walls. She’s too dizzy to observe more details.

She is pushed into a handsome study, lit by (thankfully) quiet lights.

She immediately notes the French doors in front of her. Carrie dashes towards the exit, but dogs bark and make their presence known. One dog viciously claws the glass.

She swiftly steps away from that option. There’s another door in the room, a more appealing option. She places a hand on the knob, turns it, and steps through.

Oh, the hallway again _(was it?)_. White looming columns she didn’t notice the first time through. She looks around again for another exit.

A door cracks open above the opulent staircase.

_Alone no longer._

Carrie hurries towards a door on her left. She tries to calm her breathing for the thousandth time. Her noisy exhaling might give away her position. _Steady, steady, Carrie._ She preps herself for the stranger’s encounter.

As soon as the man enters her room, she slams him to the floor, placing as much of her weight on him as possible. She’s lightweight, but the element of surprise is on her side. Just as she’s about to pound his face with a well-positioned fist, a shout rings across the room.

“Don’t!”

The voice is unmistakably familiar.

How many times has she heard that voice? _Not enough._ But enough for her to recognize it anywhere.

It was Brody lying beneath her on the plush carpet, Brody who repeated the word.

It _couldn’t_ be. The rational half of her brain knows it _can’t_ be Brody.

“Don’t,” he breathes. His face is so bright. They’re in a darkened room -- how could his face be so clear? She knows all the contours of his face: those thin lips, the surprised gaze he often had when he saw her for the first time in ages --

The red hair, bright as day.

“Oh my god!” Carrie falls back towards the wall, scuttering away from him. “Oh!”

“Hey,” he says steadily. He’s reaching out to her, ready to offer a secure hand.

_Just like Quinn would. Pretend it’s Quinn. Pretend it’s Quinn._

“No,” she pants. She crawls away from him, pawing on the carpet to get any sort of distance from the man --

He is quick to follow, trying to grab her, trying to steady her -- but she doesn’t need the help, she just needs to get away from _this_ \--

What is _this_ , exactly? What is _he_? Is she dreaming? Is her mind playing tricks on her again?

She knows from experience that her head can’t be trusted. Or is it her eyes this time?

_Crap, now she really wished that it was Quinn instead of --_

“Don’t be scared -- ”

“Get the fuck away from me,” she snarls. She’s blocked by the sofa behind her. No -- she’s not completely helpless, no way. Carrie covers her eyes with her hands. It’s her eyes; her eyes are the problem. _Shut them, erase the sight._  

“You’re safe here!”

She’s wheezing out of control again. _Breathe in, breathe out._ Fuck. Fuck her lungs, fuck her eyes, fuck her fucking body. Her body was failing her.

_Where the hell is Quinn when he’s actually needed for once --_

“C’mon, Carrie! C’mon!” Brody’s voice is reedy. Strange yet familiar: that tone his voice took when he was insistent sometimes.

“AUUGH, AUGGGH!” A half-growl, half-whimper erupted from her throat. What was that noise? It sounded like a wounded animal; it didn’t sound like fucking Carrie Mathison.

_Someone needed to slap her awake._

“Carrie, Carrie, look at me,” says Brody persistently, wanting to be seen, wanting to be real. Carrie can barely hear him over the moaning from her own mouth.

“C’mon, show me those eyes,” he says, more tenderly. Even though the voice is soft, she can hear the words. _As clear as day._

She feels a hand gently brush the side of her face. The touch only lasts for a moment, but she knows -- she _knows_ that hand. It makes no sense, Carrie tells herself, but she knows it to be _true_.

“Open those eyes.”

The same hand lightly grips her own hand, chiding it to fall from her face. Her hand is her shield, her shield from reality.

The reality gazing from the eyes that suddenly appeared before her own.

_Brody’s eyes._

His face is lined, but unchanged. His eyes are gentle, but still probing.

She feels defenseless.

Brody had always been able to look at her as if he could truly _see_ her. Her weak self. The insecure soul that she could hide from her colleagues, hide from the rest of the world. But Brody could always break that self-assured CIA professional persona that hid the real Carrie, like a stone shattering glass.

“See, see, I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers, mustering a slight smile.

“No, I’m --”

She’s about to respond, but she knocks her head with both her hands. “FUCK! Wake up!” she screams to herself.

Brody grabs both of her arms and growls, “Stop it! Cut it out!”

“No,” she replies firmly. It’s the calmest she’s felt for a while. She inhales deeply, because what she will say will be devastating:

“I was there. I saw you. You were dead.”

He gazes at her openly. He has that optimistic look, the one that could nod alongside her, but secretly thinks: _Jesus, this woman is fucking mental_.

“Your mind is playing tricks on you, you’ve had a rough night,” he says soothingly, like a nurse treating a child frightened by a needle.

“A _rough_ night, are you FUCKING _kidding_ me --”

“It’s over now,” he declares. “It’s over, I’m here. _Right_ here.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” mutters Carrie. She crawls a few feet away, but again, he’s still at her side.

“What happened?” He breathes in her face. “Is this so hard to believe?”

They sit in near-silence, only interrupted by their harsh inhalations and exhalations. Carrie’s lower lip trembles.

“I -- I do,” she says falteringly, shaking her head. “I want, I w-want to believe.”

“Then do,” he says simply.

Carrie draws a ragged breath. She can’t cry; she would lose what little of her self-control she had left. Tears are already streaming down her cheeks.

“Here,” he murmurs, placing her hand on his cheek. “See?”

The cheek is real. Brody is real.

She reaches out her other hand to caress his left cheek. “You,” she croaks.

“Yes,” he whispers.

“It’s you. It’s really you.”

“Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

A cry of happiness. She leans forward, to touch his lips with hers -- to make sure they are real. His lips are dry, but they kissed her back.

Carrie lets out another ragged cry as she leans her head on his neck and clutches him. She senses another cry is coming, but snuffs it -- she needs to kiss him. Kiss him on both of his cheeks and the side of his face, swiftly.

Carrie has never wanted to feel closer to another human being. Those tears that ran down her cheek when she made love to Aayan: she was reminded of the intimacy that she and Brody had together. The air of accepted mystery that bonded them.

That intimacy was something she and Aayan couldn’t share.

Carrie and Brody snapped at each other as they discovered the dirty details they hid from one another. They fought, they flirted, they fucked.

They could create another world of their own. An intimate space, separate from the harsh reality of their real identities: Carrie Mathison, bipolar CIA officer, disgraced at various points of her career; Nicholas Brody, returned war hero, later traitor to his own country.

They delighted in the short time they had together: away from his watchful family, away from the crushing pressures of DC. Brody always savored every small moment they had together.

But this feels _different_.

When the kiss ends, nothing follows. The urgency -- the _passion_ \-- is missing.

Carrie backs away slightly, overcome with another possibility.

“Why are you so cold?” she wonders aloud.

He’s more guarded now, more cautious, she realizes. His face seems farther away, as if he kneeled up to tower over her.

“You’re mad at me,” she concludes quietly.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” she says, already convinced.

“I’m not,” he responds, more firmly.

“Yes, you hate me.”

He’s grimacing now.

“You’ve come back to punish me for what I’ve done.”

“You’re not making sense --” 

“I’m making perfect sense,” she says quickly, her voice climbing in volume. “And maybe you’re right, maybe, maybe t-that _is_ the awful truth. Maybe I just need to say it out loud.”

“Say what?” he questions, cocking his head.

“ _I was willing to let you die_.”

A pause.

“Listen to me, I don’t know what you’re talking about. _No one has died._ ”

She’s crumbling, her self-assurance lasting only a fleeting minute.

“Hey, hey,” he says soothingly above her. “Come here, come here.”

He strokes her hair, pulling her head towards his face. She can feel his warm breath, heavy next to her damp cheek. They embrace as she begins sobbing. He runs one hand across her upper back, the other around her hip.

He feels so real.

“I’m here, you’re safe,” he whispers reassuringly to her.

She wants to curl around him, to make sure every single part of him was real. She’s twitching, convulsing, every muscle on fire. She’s so tired, so tired of running from everyone.

“Oh, Brody,” she sobs into his neck. “Brody, Brody.”

She needs someone -- _anyone_ \-- to let her know that she wasn’t alone in the world.

Hell, if her heart is telling her that this is Brody, what right did her mind have to deny that fantasy? He was the only person in the world who ever made her feel less alone.

Carrie doesn’t care whether Brody is real or not. Her head is spinning so fast that nothing really mattered.

_Nothing mattered._

Her breathing slows down.

_Nothing matters tonight._

Her strength fades.

_Nothing else._

She can feel her consciousness slipping away.

She thinks: _I was wrong. I was so wrong._

_There was always Quinn who..._

She falls asleep before she completes this thought.

 

  


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Khan is certain that Tasneem hinted that she would find a way to exploit Mathison’s weaknesses, but he suddenly feels a trace of doubt. Was she proposing that he, Khan, find a way to take advantage of Mathison?"

_MATHISON, CARRIE ANN. CIA, Islamabad station chief. Born in 1980 (34 years old), blonde hair, hazel-grey eyes, 165cm, 54kg, unmarried._

“Mathison, Carrie,” Tasneem reads aloud from her laptop screen. “She’s the ousted Kabul station chief. Looks like they’re moving damaged goods across the border.”

She scrolls down to the profile photograph. “A blonde. You like blondes, don’t you,” she remarks flippantly, without looking at him. Khan knows Tasneem well enough to realize that offering a response to her snark is precisely what she wants.

He takes a sip of tea. “She’s quite young for an American station chief,” he comments instead.

“Mmm,” agrees Tasneem, still focusing on the profile.

“She could be dangerous. These young CIA agents are often rather ambitious and driven to prove themselves.”

“ _Dangerous_?” Tasneem repeats, looking up from the screen. “After those fiascos, she’s probably shaken. _Vulnerable_ , definitely.” Her lips quirk disbelievingly.

Not long ago, Khan remembers, Tasneem had been a young upstart from the foreign department. She greeted with a wide smile and cocked her head to flirt with everyone worth knowing. Now she felt comfortable in her newfound power, disputing with her male colleagues without sweetening her assertions.

“Perhaps,” relents Khan. He studies Mathison’s photograph. She was slim, with a fair complexion and intense eyes. Young indeed, with a striking stare. Mathison gazed into the camera as if aware that countless intelligence agencies would include her photograph in their databases.

Her eyes dared her adversaries to challenge her.

She was attractive, Khan concedes to himself. Especially in a sector where brains were valued over beauty.

“Well, we’ll see her at the meeting and judge for ourselves,” Tasneem concludes. “Then let’s make our next move.”

 

* * *

 

Khan, Tasneem, and their colleagues file into the American Embassy’s modestly-sized conference room for the high-level meeting regarding the disappearance of Saul Berensen, former interim Director of the CIA.

Carrie Mathison takes her place directly across from him, one of three women from the American delegation. After a round of introductions, she listens intently, but does not comment.

Mathison’s official photograph failed to reveal the energy of her real-life counterpart. Her acute eyes miss nothing, (almost) discreetly observing Tasneem fiddling with her mobile. Her gaze halts its roving for only a few seconds, but it is enough to seize whatever information she desired.

Despite her alertness, her eyes appear somewhat hollow. She blinks hard and fast. Underneath, he suspects, she is probably fatigued. And _vulnerable_ , as Tasneem hypothesized.

Khan is certain that Tasneem hinted that she would find a way to exploit Mathison’s weaknesses, but he suddenly feels a trace of doubt. Was she proposing that he, Khan, find a way to take advantage of Mathison?

Khan examines Mathison again. He knows that look.

It was the look of an overworked intelligence officer.

_Perhaps Tasneem is on to something._

Khan folds his hands and appraises the rest of the Americans in the meeting. Next to her was Mr. Andrew Lockhart, the former Senator who became CIA Director last year.

Lockhart is forthcoming, especially compared to the silent Mathison. He is much easier to summarize as a person: forceful, dismissive, and disinclined to negotiate.

“No one on this side of the table believes for a _second_ that Mr. Haqqani pulled any of this off by himself,” Lockhart declares.

The silence that follows is deafening.

“What do you mean, exactly?” asks General Latif tersely. Khan can see him slide forward in his chair.

“My predecessor was abducted from an international airport protected and secured by the Pakistani military. And the ISI,” replies Lockhart grimly.

Khan can feel a few American officials glance his way.

Before Khan has a chance to respond to Lockhart’s allegation, Tasneem jumps in: “We’re doing everything we can to find out what happened. And if and where security measures failed.”

The American ambassador, Martha Boyd, tries to alleviate the tension. “And we thank you in advance for your thoroughness in the matter,” she says to Tasneem, with a classic diplomat’s smile.

Lockhart does not bother to wait for a polite response from the Pakistanis. “Point is they didn’t _fail_ , at all,” he says irritably. “They were simply _ignored_.”

“I’m not sure if I like what I think I’m being accused of,” says General Latif.

“It’s no secret that elements inside your intelligence service and armed forces are sympathetic towards Mr. Haqqani.” Lockhart breathes heavily through his nose. “Just as they were to Osama Bin Laden.”

Lockhart and Latif stare at one another.

Cutting the silence, General Latif responds delicately: “Now this is totally unacceptable, Madame Ambassador.”

Ambassador Boyd is unnerved, clearly unbriefed by Lockhart’s approach to this meeting. As she opens her mouth to respond --

“What is unacceptable is the double dealing that your country has been engaged in for _decades_.”

General Latif abruptly stands up. Khan, along with the rest of the Pakistani delegation, take this as their cue to exit.

“Minister, please,” Boyd implores, shooting an infuriated glare at Lockhart.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” says Lockhart loudly, over the noise of shuffling chairs. “Either Saul Berensen gets returned to this Embassy quickly and quietly, or we put Pakistan’s two billion dollar a year aid package under immediate review.”

The whole room is momentarily stilled by Lockhart’s threat.

“Good day, Madame Ambassador.” The polite words belied the anger in General Latif’s eyes. His group slowly processes out of the crowded room. Khan looks at Mathison one last time: she is casting an alarmed eye at the Director.

There is something about her that seems different from other American station chiefs. There is something very sincere about her actions. She is not hiding her surprise, as he would himself. The shock is on display on her face, as plain as day.

A very unusual quality for a spy, even an American spy.

 

* * *

 

Khan can hear her hurried footsteps trailing behind him long before he hears her voice.

“A word?”

He turns to confront her.

Mathison. She looks primed for a difficult interrogation, with her hands thrust in her trouser pockets. Khan directs his chauffeur to wait.

Before he stops in front of her, she begins speaking:

“Saul Berensen said you were smart.”

If this was flattery, she was doing it completely wrong. The hard glint in her eye would make a weaker man shy away.

He raises an eyebrow at her greeting. “I believe he called me a bright young man, which isn’t the same thing.”

Mathison doesn’t wait for any sort of transition in their conversation. She shakes her sheet of blonde hair and points out, “You were one of the last people to see him before he was taken.”

“Only because you sent him on a mission to stir up trouble.” He’s almost as quick to respond as she is.

She ignores this. “That puts you at the _center_ of this. The _epicenter_. And Saul just wasn’t stirring things up, he was relaying _facts_ ,” she says, nodding. “ _Facts_ \-- fundamental facts that you cannot run away from. And -- ”

“Who’s running?” he interjects in a low voice.

She ignores him again, still ranting: “And the ISI hardman he was talking about, the thug on the ground directing Sandy Bachman’s demise, that very same guy at the airport the night Saul disappeared -- ”

There is something manic about her manner. She is much like Lockhart, in her direct speaking style, but lacks his steady tone. Perhaps she is shaken by the events in Afghanistan, or by the unfortunate fate of Bachman. Mathison is clearly agitated by something -- he should find out what is provoking her.

“Do you… always talk this fast?”

She widens her eyes in surprise. “Am I?” she scoffs. “ _Talking fast_?”

“Very.”

She looks away momentarily, reevaluating, as Khan continues, “You’re upset, I understand.”

He is about to step away when Mathison starts again: “ _Upset_ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Well, I want you to know that I have no idea who this hardman is that you’re talking about.”

“His name is Farhad Ghazi,” she says levelly.

Khan plays his _I don’t know_ persona. The name does ring a bell. He doesn’t know what she knows. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to know, quite honestly. He knows that Tasneem’s secretive task force is involved in Saul’s disappearance, but his knowledge excludes the details.

(“Best not to know,” Tasneem had argued at their last briefing. _The intricacies of intelligence work_ , he sighed. The necessary secrecy underminded his desire for an orderly bureaucracy.)

Meanwhile, Mathison spills out the facts she does know -- a flight number, a destination. He replies that forensics has been all over the airport security tapes.

“ISI forensics?”

“Yes.”

“So you see my problem.”

Khan narrows his eyes. “More accusations.” He walks away, towards his car again.

“So prove me wrong,” she calls out as he retreated again. “Show me those tapes.”

Khan recalls his impression of Mr. Berensen, a sharp older man capable of warmth -- who could gruffly refer to General Latif as “Bunny”? What a daft nickname for the General. Berensen sounded bone-weary (makes sense, as he had been chased out of the CIA not long ago) yet fervently searched for information, looking out for someone at the Agency.

Carrie Mathison, obviously.

It’s clear she is impassioned by her argument. She must have been close to Saul, her former supervisor. They were probably more than colleagues.

Khan wonders what it must feel like to be protected by such a passion.

He swivels around to look at her again. “Fine,” he says simply.

She stares at him in disbelief, disarmed by his lack of reticence. He gives her directions to the security section of the airport, before she rushes back into the U.S. Embassy, no doubt on her way to her next confrontation.

There is no real reason to block her investigation, Khan reasons. All the more reason to allow her, to gain her trust. And perhaps test her passion and endurance.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Khan slides into the backseat of his car, he receives a call.

“Khan.”

“The tapes have been cleared,” says Tasneem. Khan does not bother to ask how she knows his question: he saw her loitering in the driveway, observing his conversation with Mathison.

“Oh? Am I correct to assume that Berensen _was_ abducted at the airport?”

“Don’t assume. Just accept.”

“What should I tell Mathison?”

“Software issue.”

“Not an impressive excuse, is it? From our conversation, she does not appear to be the type who would believe it.”

“That doesn’t matter right now. Slow her down.”

“I’ll try to build rapport with her another way.”

“You do that,” Tasneem replies dismissively. “And another thing. Reham sent me another letter.”

Khan is quiet for a moment. “Saying?”

“The same thing as last time.”

He sighed. “I’m very sorry about that.”

Tasneem does not reply. Khan can hear her fingers typing away on a keyboard.

“I’m afraid she’s still upset.”

“Understandable. You take care,” Tasneem says abruptly, before hanging up.

 

* * *

 

“So there’s nothing _actual_ from the gate where Mr. Berensen _actually_ disappeared?” Mathison demands, in the tone of someone accustomed to getting their way.

As expected, Mathison is infuriated upon learning that the cameras covering gates 40 to 53 had been down due to technology malfunction.

“Apparently not.”

“That doesn’t strike you as _suspicious_?”

“It strikes me as unfortunate,” says Khan coolly.

Mathison assaults his senses: her vehement voice is loud, her eyes scan his every movement. Her sense of hearing must be electric; she seems distracted by the clinking of a nearby mug.

Khan notices this momentary distraction. It is noticeable, for someone who is normally supernaturally alert. Maybe she had a naturally nervous disposition, he thinks.

She shakes her head to compose herself.

“You warned them that we were coming, didn’t you?” she suddenly asks him.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, what have they done with the evidence?”

She suddenly swivels her head towards a guard leaving the room.

“Hey, where’s he going? _Hey_! Excuse me!” she calls after him, hot on his heels. “What’s in the briefcase?”

She sounds almost masculine with her authority, despite sliding a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Nothing,” the befuddled guard replies. He glances at Khan cautiously, recognizing him.

“ _Nothing_?” Mathison repeats disdainfully. “Empty? It doesn’t look empty to me.”

“Just some papers,” mutters the guard.

Khan looks at Mathison straight in the eye. “Trust me. Nobody here is hiding anything.”

She glances at him, still agitated by the possibilities.

“You have my word,” Khan says firmly.

“Prove it.”

Khan directs the security guard to open his briefcase.

Mathison scans the contents and appears floored by the answer: the guard is only carrying some light reading material and a packed lunch. She glances at the guard, and back at Khan. Khan feels his expression being inspected.

She looks away again and shakes her head.

Government officials are frequently paranoid, to put it lightly, but Mathison is on overdrive. Khan feels pity for her, as she excuses herself to make a call in the hallway _(the default excuse for a diplomat to leave a room)_. Her new position must be quite straining, in light of the fact that her predecessor was killed.

Mathison won’t last long in Pakistan. He has seen young Western intelligence officers come and go, with little interest in the local culture. Some of them are career agents, eager for risky assignments to impress supervisors. Mathison clearly isn’t one of those.

She’s not an ivory tower scholar or a journalist running towards the action for a photo op; she’s a field agent who thinks she’s a player in the game of international politics.

Judging from her temperament, she’s more likely to blow herself up before making a key finding, Khan thinks to himself.

_Or cause earthquakes wherever she goes._

Khan would prefer to disavow Mathison for rationality’s sake, but his intuition tells him it would be unwise to bet against her. She is an intriguing and contradictory figure.

 _Definitely someone to keep in check_ , decides Khan. _Someone to keep an eye on._

 

* * *

 

Enclosed in the solitude of his study, Khan reviews reports for several hours before he is reminded of Tasneem’s mention of a certain name earlier that day.

Suddenly restless, he shuffles a few more papers before he picks up his phone.

“Reham.”

A pause as the recipient collected herself. “Aasar,” she says lightly. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“How are you?” he asks, carefully placing his pen down.

“Fine,” she replies curtly.

“I hope so. Tasneem said you sent her another letter.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve… I’ve told you once before. There’s no truth in your suspicions,” he says, a little too quickly.

She doesn’t reply.

“Reham?”

Reham sighs. “I don’t believe you,” she says quietly.

Khan clenches his free hand. “I know.”

The two lapse into another silence.

“She’s only a colleague.”

“A colleague?” She laughs sadly at the notion. “I don’t understand why you must work such long hours with her. Surely they see the amount of time you put in.”

“It isn’t enough.”

“No? Not enough to sacrifice your family? I haven’t seen you since…”

“Only because you don’t wish to see me.”

She falls silent again.

“Reham, it is for the good of Pakistan.”

Reham pauses again, considering her words. “I wish I could believe that,” she says finally. “Goodbye, Aasar.”

The call is disconnected.

Khan stands up, looking outward from the French doors of his study. The dim moonlight lights up the extensive grounds of his garden.

His empty garden.

All of his promotions, his increases in salaries, his personal influence within the government: they all seem irrelevant, with Reham gone. Only his fervent commitment to doing the right thing -- defending his country best he can, in between the crossfire of politics (and Tasneem’s occasional scheming) -- remains.

Khan has little time to reflect before the phone rings.

He knows it’s not her.

“Khan.”

A vaguely familiar male voice speaks. “This is Ahmed, sir. You asked us to track the movements of the CIA staff.”

“Yes?”

“Sir, this is regarding the CIA station chief. The city police were about to arrest her, but we intervened. We have her in custody.”

“ _Arrest_ her? Carrie Mathison?”

“Yes, sir. She was causing a disturbance near Jinnah Market, dropping a weapon and rambling like a madwoman. What should we do with her, sir?”

“How long have you had her in custody?”

“About an hour, sir. She’s quiet now. Just shaking quite a bit, as far as we can tell.”

Khan contemplates his options. He could release Mathison to the city authorities _(possibly disgrace her reputation, put her career in jeopratory, and intensify current talks with the United States)_ , or keep her in ISI protection.

The latter was infinitely more desirable.

Convincing Mathison that keeping her breakdown a secret from the public would be a _personal_ favor. Allowing her the space and time to collect herself would potentially give him an opportunity to gain her trust.

“Ahmed, bring her to my house.”

 

* * *

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Khan hears a car park in front of the house. The mansion’s front door opens and closes.

It’s time to confront Mathison again.

As he steps down to the main foyer, he sees a blur whirl into a study. Just as he walks into the room, a dark figure grabs him and hurls him to the ground.

“ _Don’t!_ ” he yells automatically.

Carrie Mathison, breathing hard, is crouched on top of him, holding up a fist. She is instantly stilled by the single word.

“Don’t,” he repeats, in his usual volume, more contained -- the momentary battle had jolted him.

Mathison seems repulsed upon seeing his face: she jumps backward instantly. “Oh my god!” she screams.

Khan is surprised at her reaction. Even in the dim lighting of the room, he can see that she is pale and frightened, as if she has seen a ghost.

“Hey,” he says, attempting a calming voice, despite his racing heart. He offers her a hand, but she bats it away and crawls off.

“No, no, no, _no_ ,” she mumbles, scrambling away on the carpet. He hears her mutter something like “Quinn, pretend, Quinn, _pretend_.”

“Miss Mathison, do you need help?” he asks, in a louder voice. He too is forced to go on all fours, trying to reach her. “Don’t be scared -- ”

“Get the fuck away from me!” she yells breathlessly. She crawls right into an ornate sofa. Bumping her head against its wooden foot, she curses and raises her head up. “Fuck!”

“You’re safe here!” Khan says, attempting a soothing tone. He feels oddly disoriented by the whole scene. No one has ever looked this fearful to be in the same room as him…

Mathison’s response is to shield her eyes using her hands, as she pants harder, as if to drown out Khan’s voice.

He should try a different tactic.

“C’mon, Carrie, you’re safe here. I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly, as he approaches her again.

Moving closer, he can smell her scent. She smells of tangerine and sweat. Somehow, the strange mixture doesn’t repel him.

“AUUUGGGH, AUUUUUGHH!” Mathison growls, frustrated. The noise startles Khan and he nearly jumps back himself. She’s still clenching her eyes and palming her face.

“Carrie, Carrie, look at me,” Khan pleads. He gently touches her wrist. Her skin is moist with perspiration and tears.

He examines her face more closely. She is crying and moaning now, teardrops infused with the utterances of pain. He wonders what is going on with her and whether or not this encounter could go violent. She was obviously a volatile woman, but Khan didn’t want to admit that he might need back-up.

After all, he wishes to gain her trust.

“Open your eyes, Carrie. Look at me,” he says, injecting as much tenderness as he could.

Mathison continues to sniff, but she does -- _is he imagining it?_ \-- crack open an eye.

“It’s just me. Aasar Khan. I’m here to help. Can I get you some food? Water?”

He reaches out to touch her smooth hair. That golden blonde hair. He was immediately reminded of his first girlfriend, from his public school days in Hertfordshire…

Khan shakes his head to refocus. _Damn Tasneem, bringing her up again._

He looks at Carrie Mathison ( _Carrie, call her Carrie_ ), straight in the eye, as far as he can tell. Her eyes are still hidden in the shadows underneath her fingers.

“Open those eyes, Carrie. You can do it…”

And she does.

She flinchingly removes the hands shielding her eyes from his own. She looks at him, tears clouding her view, but it’s nearly shocking how piercing her eyes are. She gazes at him as if in a state of wonder.

Khan licks his lips nervously. She looks as if she is realizing something significant… something he isn’t certain about. He isn’t sure what she wants from him, or what accounted for her sudden change of heart.

“See, I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmurs, almost willing the staring to stop.

“No,” she whispers. “I’m -- FUCK! Wake up!” Her hands fly up again, to smack herself on the side of the head.

Khan clutches her wrists again and barks, “Stop this! You don’t need to do this to yourself, Carrie!”

“No,” she says with sudden finality. It’s quite unnerving, this instant calmness settling on her features. The wrinkles of doubt and the furrowed brow have disappeared, along with some of her crippling anxiety.

She takes a deep breath. “I was there. I saw you. _You were dead_.”

Khan stares at her for several seconds. She appears to be completely serious. “Dead? I’m dead?”

She nods solemnly.

“Perhaps… perhaps you’re tired. Your mind is playing tricks on you, you’ve had a rough night,” Khan says, half to himself, trying to explain why on earth Carrie Mathison is telling him he is supposed to be dead.

His appeal fails.

“A _rough_ night, are you FUCKING _kidding_ me --”

“It’s over now,” he cuts in firmly.

“ _No_ , no, no, no!” replies Carrie, starting to panic again. She’s shaking her head. Her chin is wobbling and dripping with tears. She’s scooting herself back, back towards a wall, but he’s right by her side.

“What’s wrong? Carrie, I’d like to help you, but --”

“It’s so hard to believe,” she interrupts.

“What’s happened? What’s so hard to believe?”

She pauses. He stares at her.

“I -- I do. I do believe,” she stammers. “I _want_ , I w-want to believe.”

Carrie gently touches him on the cheek. He can only watch bemusedly at her nonsensical action. She strokes his face gently, then raises her other hand to caress his other cheek.

“You,” she whispers, suddenly content.

“Yes,” he replies, without thinking.

“It’s you. It’s really you.”

Before Khan is able to say another word, Carrie kisses him.

Her lips are salty, stained with tears. Her face emits heat generated from hours of running and shouting. All and all, it’s not the most pleasant of kisses.

But he kisses her back.

He’s as dry as she is moist. Khan can feel the balance shifting, as her heat warms his cool exterior. He hadn’t realized how cold he had let himself become, sitting still in his study all evening. She fondles the side of his neck as he caresses the small of her back.

She’s the one who breaks away, but she kisses him again on the face twice and on his neck. The prints on his skin stirs up memories of his estranged wife: it has been months since he has encountered anything approaching intimacy.

Then she sits up, straight, wiggling away from their embrace.

“Carrie?”

Her mouth is agape. Then she speaks: “Why are you so cold?”

He purses his lips, confused again. “Am I?”

She runs a hand through her beautiful hair. “You’re mad at me,” she asserts.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m _not_. Why are you acting like this?”

“Yes,” she says -- and now Khan is befuddled by her irrational behavior. Her next words: “You hate me. You’ve come to punish me for what I’ve _done_.”

“Which… sorry, which is?”

“You’ve -- what I’ve _done_. I… I broke up your family, I g-gave birth to your child, I destroyed your _goddamn_ identity…”

“You’re not making sense --”

“I’m making perfect sense!” she yells. “And maybe you’re right, maybe, maybe t-that _is_ the awful truth. Maybe I just need to say it out loud.”

“Say what?” says Khan, still baffled.

“ _I was willing to let you die_.”

They pause.

The truth dawns on Khan. _She thinks I’m someone else_ …

“Listen to me, I don’t know what you’re talking about. _No one has died._ ”

_She thinks I’m her lover._

Her eyes widen. She’s tearing up again. Khan curses internally; he doesn’t want to see her fall apart again.

“Come here, Carrie.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulder as she sobs into his neck. Tears fall onto his crisp shirt.

“I’m here, you’re safe,” he whispers into her skin. He brushes the stray hairs out of her face and allows his arm to fall around her upper back. He smoothly places his other hand around her hip.

She shivers as she cries a single word, over and over again: “Brody… oh, Brody, Brody…”

“Shhh… calm yourself, Carrie. Who’s Brody?”

_Brody… why did that name sound familiar to him?_

“Who’s Brody?”

Her ragged breaths dissolve into shallower gasps. Carrie soon sobs herself to sleep without answering his question.

Quiet in his arms, Carrie Mathison looks docile, harmless compared to how she acted in her confrontations with him earlier in the day. _How surreal this whole situation was._ Never in his wildest dreams would Khan dream of having the same fiery woman wrapped in his arms that night.

Her hair is in disarray until Khan combs through it using his hand.

After half an hour of sitting on the hard wooden floor, Khan is sure that his companion has passed out for the night. He adeptly carries her sleeping form to a guest bedroom on the ground floor. He pulls her boots off, tucks her into the linen blankets, and shuts the door quietly behind him.

 

* * *

 

That night, slipping into his own bed upstairs, Khan comes to a realization. _Nicholas Brody, was he the American traitor executed by the Iranians last year?_

From what little information he picked up tonight, it sounded as if Carrie Mathison believes herself implicated in his death. He feels uneasy mulling over this possibility. It was well worth researching, but…

There is no integrity in someone willing to take advantage of someone in the state Mathison was in tonight.

Tasneem might do that. Not Khan.

He turns over onto his side, underneath the cool covers. He shivers when he is reminded of the expression on her face when she believed that he was her beloved. That brief moment of euphoria on her face. Her ecstatic kiss. The sliver of desire that flared in him. Her passionate attempt to establish intimacy between them.

 _Damn Carrie Mathison._ _(Carrie? Should he call her Carrie?)_ She reminded him of how long ago it had been since he had been intimate with a woman.

Now he would be reminded of Carrie Mathison’s kiss every time they encountered each other. The feeling of her hair, her skin, as they passed by each other at government offices, in the streets of Islamabad. The memory would only multiply the jolt he felt when she impulsively attacked him -- verbally or physically.

He doesn’t doubt that he will see more of her.

 _Reham will never find out about this_ , he thinks resolutely. _Nor should Tasneem._

 _Tonight happened because of mistaken identity._ _It was false intimacy._

Khan sighs.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is at least one plot inconsistency between the two chapters and my details might contradict those of the show. I like to think that these bits are subjective... but honestly, I might've screwed up, hehe. 
> 
> This story uses a lot of episode dialogue and I may not have transcribed the lines exactly.
> 
> And of course, Homeland doesn't belong to me. This story is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit. It's the first piece of fan fiction I've published online, so I hope it's not too horrible.


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